Disclaimer: Things are about to go crazy, fair warning. Rating has been jumped up to M, and it's staying there. I don't own Sherlock, but he owns me! I really hope everyone enjoys, I shall be uploading more chapters soon. If you like it, please review! And thank you for reading!
Chapter Twelve
"The One Known As Mary"
The woman the world knew as Mary Morstan sat on the staircase of the now empty house she had been sharing with John Watson. He had just left moments before, taking with him a promise of a future she knew had been too good to be true.
Her finger was sore from where she'd ripped off the engagement ring, and a small part of her brain analyzed the pain and tried rubbing it away. The other part of her mind was devoted to maintaining control, to keeping her on those stairs. She wasn't about to run after him, pleading he love her more than the man he was leaving her for. No, she worked at her control so that she didn't kill him, or kill Sherlock Holmes. The rage was strong, and came crawling out of the part of her she thought long dead.
In reality, she had died five years prior, in a spectacular explosion designed to leave nothing behind but red mist. Having successfully taken out her last targets, Mary had disappeared into the explosion designed to cover all evidence, revealing her presence just long enough for there to be outside witnesses to her "death."
Sherlock Holmes wasn't the only one who could die and be reborn. For almost twenty years the woman now known as Mary had traversed the globe, dealing death and misery for her masters, and for profit when the mood struck her. Over seven billion people in the world, meaning there had been no shortage of jobs. What there had been a shortage of was time - which Mary had been running out of. The downside to being oh so very good at killing had been that too many people knew who she was, who she had killed, and who her masters were. It was the bane of existence for most killers; the successful ones eventually had to be "retired", as their functionality diminished after the fifteen year mark. She had been so remarkably good at her job, at disappearing, and at completing assignments with minimal evidence left behind, that her expiration date had been later than most.
So five years ago, after that last massively wonderful job, Mary had faked her death. It saved everyone the hassle of trying to take out a successful assassin without losing more assets. And so she hid, and kept her head down, changed her appearance, and dug up the name of a stillborn infant in the charming countryside of rural England. Having a functional skill in first aid and medical techniques, becoming a nurse had been as easy as breathing. As easy as any of the dozen of other roles she had played in the pursuit of her previous career. Eventually, she knew the role she was playing would become real; her talents allowing her to adapt naturally to the idioms, accents, and cultural reactions of the land she now called home. England was similar enough to her previous homeland that she took to it like a duck to water.
There she had created the life of Mary Morstan, orphaned late in life, no family to speak of, and a need to move away from painful memories, to make new friends, a new life. People tend not to ask questions about your younger years if you make it as awkward as possible for them to do so. And if you make it boring enough. No one likes to be bored.
She sobbed, catching herself before the sound slipped free in to the air. She would not weep for John Watson. She had known his love for Sherlock Holmes to be strong, so strong it was like living with another person in this house. He had still loved her, touched her, cared for her and went through the motions of enjoying their life together. But the moment Sherlock Holmes came back to life, John had changed. No, that was wrong; he hadn't changed, he had merely changed back to who he was before the Fall. As if the man she had met ten months ago had been a mere cipher of who John Watson really was.
She stood, and went deeper into house, walking inside the pantry. Moving aside some canned goods, she lifted the shelf away from the wall. Running the tips of her fingers along the plaster underneath, she felt the small depression she knew to be there and pushed. A deep clinking noise came from within the wall, and a squared, small portion of wall popped free. Reaching inside, ignoring the dust and cobwebs, she pulled out a long, slim case, made of hardened plastic and reinforced with biometric locks along its length. She carefully let the case down on the floor, wiping the dust from its exterior. Her fingers lightly touched on the miniature scanners, and tiny beeps went off in welcoming succession. Each lock opened, and she gingerly opened the lid. Inside were the remnants of her old life. Knives, guns, silencers, small half pound bricks of sealed C4, assorted other tools. The disassembled sniper rifle gave her the greatest pause, her fingers lingering a moment before moving on. Her fingers danced among her tools, touching on them like familiar friends from old. She felt a cold breeze along the surface of her heart; she hadn't felt the need to touch these weapons, her oldest friends, in a very long time. The reassurance she got from them now steadied her heart, gave her a calm center upon which to right her rapidly dissolving world.
Mary let her love wash away to mix with her rage; holding it inside would make her useless, cripple her actions and her reflexes. She had the training to survive this; whether anyone else survived it was another matter. She cried without tears, an old skill developed early. One she hadn't used in a very long time.